The natural restive state that I live in was on full glorious display last night to my mother-in-law. We were attending a family engagement party and came into subtle conversation about how to lay down the red carpet for most prized entry of both family’s first grandbaby. This branched into a conversation with a future, hopefully soon, aunt-in-law concerning vaccinations and their part in government roles and self-regulation. Do not worry. I am not going to bore you with anecdotals and statistics. I am just laying the groundwork for where the planted words laid to where they grew.

Come to find out some people just don’t know the facts about vaccinations. I am not the one to educate but I am one to spur a cause to look for the answers. I do hope she will look into it later. Another topical conundrum was the fight over tradition versus upstart facts. I was sad to see this particular discussion left on the oak floors to be stamped by those who have minds on Emerald City Comic Con and Prague and sexual harassment classes.

And then I had a pregnant (pardon the pun) pause myself. The mind dropped itself into first gear and the world slowed down. I am no longer the communicative dictator that I once was. More closer to the truth is that as world rotates and swerves and bounces to its intergalactic groove, those around me do the same at a similar exponential rate with the same results as myself. Scrambling to keep the single most auspicious characteristic is frightening. Oration was my sword, words made people kneel. Most of the time it was very loud words. No more. I have been trying to convey messages and scripture that I just roll off my tongue like a machine gun. The articulation is gone and only a confused jumble of pronouncements and misunderstandings lay in its wake.

The pause dissipated, the drug wearing off, the party sounds fade in and out. I am just standing there with my peanut butter ball in my hand, trying so hard not to cry. I have not worried about what kind of father I will be until now.

Like this:

I have a few things to say about the last couple of months. “They have been exhausting” is the appropriate response however I will defer to the naughty bit that goes off in my brain. The portion of fleshy electricity that says that the past few months have been an absolute ball sucker worthy of a royal eunuch of South Asian hijra.

Dogs are the best. We know this. It’s a universal fact. They are always hype. Always. It is also a universal fact that it’s fucking sad that you have to tell two grown adults to stop bickering like 7 year olds. Another universal fact: My opinion doesn’t need to meet anyone’s expectation. Haters can hate but I am right and you don’t listen. Obviously.

I am incredibly pissed because an important portion of my life has been set into upheaval by Depression and Angst. And yet, nary a word. Silence wafts over the barren landscape that is the Family Desert. I feel like an obligation. The tide has turned for the weird when your own sibling, a person that argued with me day and night about God knows what, is now a singular champion of reason in this game of politiks. I feel like have both hands cuffed behind my back but haven’t been made aware of the charges against me. The net result is me without alcohol because I made an agreement and a baby on the way.

Yes, we are having a baby and yes, fill in your favorite cliche (mine is “It’s time for you to grow up, Michael”). Blah blah blah. I blur the lines between maturity and grown up. I particularly like how the cows of my life can’t tell the difference and see that their own ignorance as a weapon against the blight of understanding of my upcoming responsibilities. Let me put it simply: I waited to have a child solely on the reasoning that I wasn’t responsible at the time my penis’ first hard-on. I wasn’t responsible the 2 millionth time after that as well. It’s a bit trying on the old psyche when family is subtly (and in my family, there is no such thing) wondering what the hell is wrong with me. Patience grew into not giving a damn until the day I got married (!) and then a year later announced K’s pregnancy (!!).

I pretty much think I have made it crystal fucking clear that I am doing fine for my family. I wouldn’t say myself though. Nonononono. This year for Halloween, I dressed up in Disappointment and side-boobs. Because side-boobs equals Disapproval. So do strippers but I wouldn’t be caught dead in fishnets. My thighs have taken on too much pregnancy sympathy ice cream. What I would do is cover myself up in Pride and then when people would try to guess what I am, I’d whip it inside out to the big D (and side-boobs). Come to find out that little trick was a hit until Christmas came and Santa brought me a mirror. It made me very apparent that I was doing this without knowing Halloween was over.

Like this:

You have no doubt taken up the great task of noticing that my blog has been stagnant. That’s kind for what it really is. With child on the way and career moves on the horizon, the act of adulting is quite possibly here to stay. And with great results! I have taken my time away from the Great Screen to produce a stash of thoughts and trinkets filled with the inane and otherworlds. Ragnarok itself would be afraid of the fury unleashed if ever these were put from paper to digitalis. Over the course of the next year, I will be reaching blindly into the whitehole of 2014 and spewing the pesterings under delusion and natural sedative.

In the meantime, I am rebooting the Question of the Day. The timestamp isn’t important. I have already said that I am lousy at timelines and it’s such an artificial restriction by right of a title. So you will get those again. Yay for you. Yay for me.

Holes have been left in my heart throughout 2014. Friends became strangers and I became a monster. Influence perished. Muses escaped the vaults, unrepentant dust trailed off to the Heavens. A window facing slats is now The World Travels Of. My heart does not long for the abyss, the mind knows better than to wish for it to sabotage. The scales are balanced through the dull kicks of another, the responsive chemical high. I may write better with the lights off but there is something to be said for the power of fatherhood.

Onward and upward.

Q: What’s a new place place you’ve recently been to?

A: I made an arbitrary gesture towards Longbeach, Washington. Hard-packed granules crunch beneath the soft shoes and the wind howls forcing you to pull your coat closer while the gulls are fighting a seemingly endless battle of physics and impossibilities. This struggle is a beautiful sight. We have our metal wings to absorb the beating. Hollow bones and saltwater drenched feathers are no match for the Chinook. Just a wonderful horror of emotion washes over you as the guide posts point you towards a remarkable view. Appropriate that this overlooks Cape Disappointment. Those brits are clever in their naming of things.

Like this:

That old fart Michael is asleep and forgot to write a Christmas blog post. It’s up to me to bail his butt out of Kristen’s fire. It has come to my attention that there will be no over the top Christmas letters from the now slightly-matted-but-still-has-that-new-smell Vernon family. It’s a recipe for disaster and everyone moans about the chirpiness when there are oodles of “cheer” being spread by Amazon’s daily reminders. That diamond tiara isn’t going to purchase its way onto the credit card bill by itself, is it? Unceremoniously, you can Pinterest it until your heart’s content.

Michael and Kristen found it necessary to invite complication into their lives. Having just the most spectacular bunny be at their beck and call wasn’t enough. There is no other explanation beyond the logical one: Old Spice and Ax Body Spray. The TV said so with their great commercials. Why else would they be getting ready for a baby running around the house without anyone’s permission? Shameful. It’s so distressing for them that they haven’t even named the fleshy thing. Absolutely despicable. Obviously, this little so-called princess and I will need to set up boundaries.

This baby came about one of two ways: Michael found a job that allows him to be home with me and Kristen at the same time, and thus happiness ensued. Or, the most likely and my personal favorite, they realized they are getting old. The growing consensus is of the opinion that they actually wanted this little girl but I have no basis for this other than anecdotal evidence.

Michael is now involved with a criminal element and keeping track of records in downtown Seattle. I don’t know what a Department of Adult and Juvenile Detention is but supposedly his Dad and his Granddad (who gave the best scratches before he went to visit the Great Carrot Patch in the sky) worked there. It can’t be all that bad.

For a few months, my sleep patterns normalized until Kristen began waking up at 2am to have Cheerios and oatmeal. And not sharing! The nerve that woman has. All the opportunities I give her to love me and BAM! No reciprocation. Instead, Michael and she go on trips to wondrous lands like Victoria and Longbeach. I am sent over to the Lemieux’s house where they have a slobbering dog taking up residence. There is also a cat, Kingsley, who wants to be friends so badly but he smells funny, and I don’t trust him. I love my owners but this is pushing my patience.

I hope everyone has a Happy Kwanzaa or whatever. May you gather round with excellent food, warm and inviting conversation, and a handful of helpful choices in Cards Against Humanity.

Like this:

Been doing a lot soul searching. I am a fan of the exercise just as long as I don’t get burnt out. A task of putting pixels to screen to form a coherent thought has helped. The writing has been a bit abstract and I started the current work in order to get process Papa’s death but it’s shifted and twisted into something malleable, possibly damaging an important part of my thought-process. I found that I write best when I am being a cynical, self-involved bastard and compartmentalizing that as a part of who I am and not making it the whole has been the past year’s futile effort in capitalizing on my happiness.

I’ve been taking bits from a few writers that I look up to, notably Warren Ellis, Neil Gaiman, and Garth Ennis. All pour themselves into their work with fascinating results but when it comes to becoming a proper citizen of reality, they turn the electricity on to jolt their brains back.

And that’s what I’ve been pondering. With everything coming into light regarding family, the sake of personal satisfaction, inevitable escape, restitution from the unknown, my own past actions are being reflected upon. I am wondering if, just as I have honed my temper and anger into being a source of passion and education for others, I can slip into and out of reality with the ease of a dream.

I am hoping I can. I would like to write more fantastical things, less abstract. It’s been a compounding struggle. Perhaps someone will turn the volts down so that I can produce more of what I did in the past.

Like this:

The time has come when the shamans and holymen come down from their safe haven in the inky shadows of Mount Rainier. They have blessed the Northwest summer with three fruitful months of sun and boilerplate heat. The fire of leaves beckons forth the Seattle fall and the time for the wild raindance and brisk screech of the Chinook wind is upon us once again. There is a tonal shift as winter knocks. These specters of men do not come forth with protection and comfort of the elements. With a victory on the field by the noble Seahawks, they’ll channel their energies to herald in a stormfront of chaos and confusion that is the Sounder’s Hydra.

The increasingly onerous task to bring forth this obstinate beast lies with the sacrifices that Head Grandmaster Sigi had to perform throughout the seasons. The Hydra’s defensive potential were boosted with AirMarshall flight capabilities and the borrowed yet reliable Yedlin speed gems have become legends of themselves. The Great HoneyBadger and his pupil, Gonzo, lent their knowledge of the landscape providing a focussed calm of the monster’s temper. All was not well as missteps were taken through treacherous territory. Injuries hampered the monster and incompatible magic from the Anibaba spirit delayed the monster’s rise to dominance. A steadfast collective of Faithful looked to the past on many occasions, very nearly pushing the ominous Panic into reality. Obagoals, DeuceRockets, Tigershots, and Barrett Barrages railed against the tidal wave of an alternative reality where loss was the only possible outcome. Through sheer will and talent, Sigi concentrated his rage at the timeshift and the Hydra obeyed his sinister yet noble commands. Goats were slayed, whole Timber forests crunched beneath its claws, free Red Bulls were tamed by its mighty banshee roar.

One more obstacle now blocks the Hydra’s ascent up the Whitecaps to the extinguish the Galaxies’ light and its reward of an impenetrable Shield. An ear-splitting crash of furious water creates a moat around the mountain. The Hydra and the Rapid have sparred once before, the immense water god slaying the Hydra many moons ago. Sigi sees weakness as the fluid motion of the Rapids is crippled and fatigued. Sigi concludes it is because of too many laps around itself and formulates plan to wrestle the Rapids into submission. He only has one chance.

Like this:

A: Popular belief would have you thinking that people from the Northwest want the sunshine all summer long. That we long for the heat of a solar flare, the tans of Greek goddesses, and the days that include a preemptive Mexican siesta. Apart from the siesta (I am in favor of sleeping after eating), the first two are farces. Many have said it is a proper summer but even I can tell when the morning KOMO4 newscasters are no longer excited about the human roasting fest. We, the mass majority of Washington State, have a threshold for the heat we have been getting for the past two months. And Friday was the tipping point.

The sky was of brushed steel, a few tears from heaven drifted upon my windshield and I giggled at the thought that the weather might be turning back for the better. I stayed inside the office for the majority of the day, wondering what chilled breeze would welcome my bare arms as the clock’s long fingers struck the 2 and the 6 in sync.

That breeze never came.

The heat lingered for an eternity as the metallic atmosphere choked on its own insulation. Humidity consumed my pores, gasping for fresh air. It only came unnaturally as I ran for the car. A silent sigh of relief filled the cabin as the air conditioning put its profession on the line and earned a gold star.

Saturday night, we still had to open all the windows as it was still too warm to sleep with them closed. It is a shame because Kristen’s pregnant and this heat isn’t helping any of the cliche albeit natural responses that women have to baby-making. I know, I know. #firstworldproblems

We are only 12 weeks into this adventure and it’s something neither of us have encountered. Congratulations! You are one of the first to know.

Like this:

Post navigation

about.me

Play how you play and play authentic.

I am a writer and owner of The Stayshift. I attempt the impossible: Answering a random QotD. There is no rhyme or reason nor a consistent posting schedule. That would bind me in literary shackles, which reminds me of this rumor that's been spreading...

Supposedly, I was once captured deep in the belly of the Arctic Circle by a phaser-toting Amazonian tribe. How I escaped is a mystery but the view above the Pterodactyl breeding nest is awe-inspiring.